Her First Billionaire

"Hot, luscious piece of ass who can suck a golf ball through forty feet of garden hose seeks rippling—ab'd firefighter who has a tongue that thrums like a hummingbird and enjoys painting my toenails and eating Ben & Jerry's out of the carton while watching Orange is the New Black."

Laura Michaels stared at the online dating site's registration screen and frowned. That's what she really wanted to write. Here was the truth:

"Needy, insecure, overweight twenty—nine—year—old financial analyst with three cats, a corporate job with pension and no debt seeks Mr. Impossible for way more than friendship and lots of ice cream. I'm desperate for some physical affection and oral sex with a guy who doesn't view it as a favor, and then expects to be praised like he cleaned my toilet. One night stands are better than nothing as long as you brush your teeth. Call me!"

Her best friend, Josie Mendham, punched her in the bicep.

"You can't say either of those!"

Josie was Laura's opposite. Where Laura was 5'6", Josie was barely tall enough to ride roller coasters. Remove the 1 from Laura's size and you still had to subtract a few to get Josie's size 2. Where Laura had long, curly blonde hair and bright green eyes, Josie was chocolate all around.

"Mutt and Jeff" her mom had called them, and they'd been besties forever.

Which meant Josie knew Laura too well. "You are going to do this, damn it," she said, wagging a finger in front of Laura's face. "No trying to be perfect. Perfect is the enemy of good enough."

"I haven't even found Mr. Good Enough!"

"That's because hundreds of Mr. Good Enoughs have walked past you, Laura, and you're blind to them."

Josie nudged Laura aside and started typing, her long nails burning up the keyboard. How did she do that? Typing on the pads of her fingers seemed impossible, but Josie did it, keeping her manicure intact, little replicas of the famous grey necktie from Fifty Shades of Grey on each nail.

The two had been out at a club the night before and Josie had slept over, waking up chipper and springing this online dating thing on Laura before she'd even had her first cup of coffee. As the machine gurgled and burbled, Laura willed it to hurry. Weighing out her entire dating future in a half—zombie state was not good.

Laura knew she had to lie, but how much was acceptable? Could she shave off a few sizes, or would she need to hack off an imaginary arm and leg to make herself seem "fit" and "athletic"? The drop—down box with its built in descriptors seemed like judgmental torment. No choices were there for "zaftig" or "juicy" or "full figure."

Being a size eighteen with F—cup breasts wasn't a crime, she knew. In real life, she was fashionable and flowing, plump and pleasing, and could arm wrestle most guys into submission, but reducing her accomplishments, personality and, yes, body into a vocabulary designed by some Internet start—up team of nineteen—year—old dropouts from Stanford and Carnegie Mellon made her irrationally angry.

No—rationally angry.

Seeing little choice, she pointed to the boxes on the screen and told Josie, "Pick the word 'fit.' I can deadlift 105 pounds. Which is," she said as she eyed Josie, "more than you weigh."

Josie pointedly ignored her, biting her lower lip and deep in concentration. "Voila!" she shouted, her hands spread wide in a grandiose gesture. "There's your ad."

She announced:

"Luscious, curvy financial analyst seeks friendship and more. Financially independent and self—assured, I'm a fit woman who wants a man

or, more than one! YOLO!

for stimulating conversation...er, yeah. Conversation. Message me

or massage me!

."

"I can't write that!" Laura groaned. "It makes me look like I want an orgy!" She squinted at the screen. "And what the hell is 'YOLO'?"

"Who doesn't want an orgy?" Josie wiggled her eyebrows lasciviously and stuck out her tongue, waggling it in a very bad imitation of oral sex. "And YOLO stands for 'you only live once.'"

"Cut it out. You're turning me on. It's been that long since I got some, and the last guy used his tongue like he was a Roto—Rooter man. Like that." She pointed at Josie's tongue and bent over, laughing.

And then Josie, with a flourish, pressed the Submit button.

"Thank you for joining—your profile is now live!" the screen read.

"Oh, no, Josie, did you really just do that?" Laura sputtered as she grabbed the mouse.

"What?" Josie batted her eyelashes. "Live a little. See who replies!"

She grabbed her heavy, over—full Vera Bradley purse that they had discovered at a local thrift shop for $3.99 and fingered her car keys. "Gotta go, Laura. And don't you dare delete that."

Laura laughed. "You know me too well."

"No kidding," Josie muttered. Her face turned serious. "Really, Laura. You need to get out there. Some guy is being deprived of your awesomeness. And besides, your budget needs the break."

"My budget?"

"Yeah. What are you spending on batteries for Bob?"

Confused, Laura shook her head. It was like Josie spoke a foreign language sometimes. "Huh?"

"Your battery—operated boyfriend. You know—BOB."

And with that she snickered, running for the door as Laura threw a section of a fashion magazine at her. Josie's evil laughter filled the apartment as she ran down the hallway, the sound fading once she hit the stairwell. "Have a good day at work!" she hollered from the street.

The coffee machine gave its death—rattle gasp that signaled the pot was done, and Laura went to drink it greedily, needing sustenance to kick her brain into gear. With enough caffeine, she could date anyone. Hmm, maybe she should do a search for baristas on that site. Free lattes would be a nice perk.

* * *

Dylan Stanwyck couldn't believe what he saw when he logged into the online dating site. Four months of weeding through so many crappy profiles had jaded him. Finding the right woman would be like coming across the proverbial needle in a haystack, but in this case he didn't want to face any pricks.

And yes, women could be pricks. So far he had been inundated with requests to chat, and he knew exactly why. Being a firefighter who competed in weightlifting competitions for fun, along with the occasional mini triathlon, made his pictures look quite nice.

The problem with the women who were responding to him was that they were also the type to be drawn to appearances only. It seemed so shallow of him to think it, but sometimes being built the way he was could be a curse.

Curse of the Jersey Shore chicks. Because that was the type who seemed to seek him out, like moths to a flame. A trashy, Snooki—like flame of ho—dom. When he met up with these women he found himself in some alternate universe, where they licked their lips and offered themselves up in the alley behind the nice tapas restaurant where he liked to take dates. A few goat—cheese stuffed dates and pitchers of sangria later and he was being humped up against a slimy brick wall next to the trash cans.

And when he turned them down...

He still had scars from one woman's long, overdone nails raking his neck as she screeched, "You don't know me!" over and over, as passersby gawked, took pictures they probably uploaded to Reddit, and mercifully called 911 when it became evident he required police assistance.

So when this new profile for Laura appeared, he peered at the description and leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. Cute. But not too cute. A little sassy. He liked sassy. He ran a hand through his thick, wavy hair. Time to get a haircut, dude. You look like a survivalist. And smell like one, too, he thought as he studied her picture and caught a whiff of himself. His morning run was done —— 3.8 miles logged on his online fitness program —— and he reeked.